


i'll try my best not to touch your face

by sifjarlit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crying, M/M, Masturbation, Spit As Lube, The Drama, Tom Hiddleston's chart has WAY too much Pisces in it, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifjarlit/pseuds/sifjarlit
Summary: On its face the concept is idyllic. Alone, for heaven knows how long, in a handsome little cabin in Iceland, which is really very beautiful, shacked up, as it were, with the single most stunning man Tom’s ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on. And yes, you know, there’s the inconvenience of the fact that said man is married, and a close friend, and indeed a coworker, but those are little things, really, an awfully small price to pay for the pleasure of getting to stay with him in such a situation, in such close quarters: bumping into each other through doorways, the feeling of a broad hand catching at Tom’s back should he lose his balance. It could be bliss, really.But here’s the issue: It’s a fucking one-bedroom.





	i'll try my best not to touch your face

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of annoyed at myself for the fact that this is the first fic on this account, because I don't write RPF. I've never been into it. I like to think of myself as a high-and-mighty Norse mythologist type. But this concept got in my brain and wouldn't leave me alone so I stayed up until 3AM writing it instead of sleeping. Here it is. Pretentious title from "Bodys" by Car Seat Headrest.
> 
> (And if you didn't know -- yes, they did share a cottage in Iceland alone in real life.)

_This is bullshit,_ Tom catches himself thinking as he turns down the covers.

On its face the concept is idyllic. Alone, for heaven knows how long, in a handsome little cabin in Iceland, which is really very beautiful, _shacked up,_ as it were, with the single most stunning man Tom’s ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on. And yes, you know, there’s the inconvenience of the fact that said man is married, and a close friend, and indeed a coworker, but those are little things, really, an awfully small price to pay for the pleasure of getting to stay with him in such a situation, in such close quarters: bumping into each other through doorways, the feeling of a broad hand catching at Tom’s back should he lose his balance. It could be bliss, really.

But here’s the issue: It’s a fucking one-bedroom.

And there are double beds, yes, so there’s some space, which is fine, Tom supposes, but not enough. Certainly nothing so much as to allow him room to...well. Exorcise certain frustrations.

“Doing okay there, mate?”

He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone already. Tom turns on a dime and is immediately caught in the crosshairs of a bright blue gaze, casual as anything -- Chris. All strong limbs and broad muscle and the most beautiful burnished-gold hair, the deepest tan skin, the most utterly, shockingly blue eyes in the world. And here Tom is making an ass of himself, as usual.

“Oh yes,” he says quickly, smiling a little too tight. “Of course. Just thinking.”

Chris nods and turns away, already shucking off his shirt and ah, yes, there go his jeans too, apparently. Just perfect. He doesn’t seem to notice Tom watching, the undisguised hunger he’s sure has crept into his eyes; just crawls into bed without so much as a care, stretching languidly beneath the sheets. Tom’s got an old comic t-shirt and some worn plaid pajama pants, and next to the miles-long expanse of Chris’ bare skin feels extraordinarily childish. He puts them on anyway, and does not have to look to guess that Chris is not watching.

Into bed. Right then.

“Well,” he says, and it comes out almost squeaky. “Good night, then.”

“Night,” Chris yawns, and shuts the light off.

They lie there, for a moment, in the dark, and Tom sits completely rigid and doesn’t move a muscle until Chris’ breathing grows slow and even. And after that keeps lying there, spine wound tight, and tells himself what he simply _won’t_ do, not here, and then no matter what he tells himself his hand’s found its way beneath his waistband and is palming gently, shamefully, at the rapidly filling length of his cock.

 _Absolutely fucking fuck me,_ he thinks, profoundly irritated with himself. _This is child’s behavior, this is ridiculous, this is utterly perverted, he’s_ right _there, this is --_ His breath catches a little in his throat. Oh, it feels good.

Tom is really not particularly prone to masturbation, least when he’s at home. It feels good to feel like he doesn’t need it, and it feels good to feel like if he doesn’t need it then there are things he can deny, if he doesn’t need _that_ then there are other people and things he doesn’t need -- but when he does it he thinks of Chris, every time, no matter what he tries. Chris touching him, Chris fucking him, Chris letting him kneel and suck his cock and be good for him, Chris just _looking_ at him, even, sometimes, just the memory of it. And now that he’s here and Chris is lying there in the bed next to his all nearly naked and looking so handsome, probably knowing Tom wants him, wants to let him rut him into the mattress and take him and _use_ him --

Another tiny gasp escapes him, entirely without his permission, and Tom presses a hand hard over his mouth. Christ.

He takes himself in hand properly. His cock’s gone wet now, dripping just a little from the head, and Tom smears the fluid over himself to try and muffle the dry sound of his hand beneath the covers, moving as quietly as he possibly can. He tries to chasten himself by thinking of how entirely disgusted Chris would be to wake and find this, and then has the distinct displeasure of realizing that only makes him hotter, sending pleasure curling dangerously up his spine at the thought of that kind of abasement. The look on his face. The realization, dawning all at once, of how desperate and hungry and filthy Tom actually is.

Tom tries not to whimper.

He’s working himself nearer and nearer to finish, trying desperately to regulate the quickening sound of his breath, when the bed shifts a little under new weight, and then he sits bolt upright and gasps out, “Oh my God, I --”

“Hey.” Chris’ voice is low, almost dangerous, and Tom shivers with it.

“Chris --”

“Shh. Listen.” It’s dark, but Tom can hear the smirk in Chris’ voice. “There’s no _noise_ in here, Tom. Did you think I couldn’t hear you?” Oh Jesus.

“I...had hoped,” Tom says miserably, humiliated beyond belief. “Listen, Chris, I’m really sorry, I was just -- I shouldn’t have, I thought you were asleep, I really didn’t mean --”

“Hey. Easy.” Chris nearly grins outright, teeth flashing a little in the dim room. “Look, I’m not stupid, Tom. I know about your...your little crush on me, or whatever it is.”

Tom flushes absolutely beet red, but barely has time to open his mouth before Chris is continuing. “And I was thinking, well, you know. We’ve only been together here a night and this is already hard on you, and I understand that. And you know, I’ve got needs, too, and not really anything to be done about them out here, is there? And I thought maybe we could come to something...mutually agreeable.”

Tom’s mouth has gone completely, entirely dry. He can’t believe his ears, and he really doesn’t want to get hopeful, not yet, not about this. “What are you saying,” he replies, a little breathless.

“Okay,” Chris says. “I’ll let you do whatever you want tonight, alright? With me. I know how bad you want it, and that’s fine, I don’t mind. But I don’t want to talk during, I don’t want to talk about it after, and absolutely no kissing, least not on the mouth. In the morning it never happened. If this gets out you and I are going to have words. Understand?”

“Oh,” Tom breathes. _Whatever you want._ Of course, Tom wants very much to kiss him, and to talk to him, and to be fucked like Chris _loves_ him, but that’s -- well. Chris is married, and Chris doesn’t seem to care particularly for men, or really particularly for Tom, beyond friendship. If it’s a choice between this kind of sex and absolutely nothing, it’s not a hard choice.

“Alright, yeah,” he says, almost a whisper, and then he’s divesting himself of his clothes and dragging Chris down into him, and it already feels so good he could almost cry.

No talking, and there’s an easy way to ensure that. Once he’s naked he positions himself up above Chris and tugs down his boxers, and _God,_ his cock is fucking _massive,_ and Tom absolutely fucking _craves._ His mouth waters at the sight, so he puts it to use and starts sucking, hard, and almost purrs when Chris tangles a hand in his hair to encourage him, letting out a dry little laugh.

To his credit, Chris doesn’t talk either, thank Jesus. If he had said anything to Tom, any word of praise whatsoever, he might’ve come apart at the seams. At any rate it feels so good to have Chris’ cock in his mouth, filling it, hard and gently pulsing and tasting like everything Tom’s ever wanted, salt and sweat and the smell of Chris mingling with it into something heady and intoxicating beyond belief. Tom himself is completely hard again, swollen and leaking, struggling not to hump down against the sheets like a teenage boy.

Chris is groaning, softly, pleasured. He’s not loud but that makes it sweeter, Tom straining to hear the sounds he draws from Chris’ throat over the obscene noises of his own mouth, the wet sound of his lips working and his own uncontainable whines. And Chris’ hips are rocking, too, just a little, grinding into his mouth, and then Tom holds still and they start to twitch, to fuck, to use his mouth and then his throat in a way that forces an animal moan from his chest, the vibration making Chris shudder.

“That’s good,” he grunts out, and Tom almost sobs. “But if you keep that up -- fuck -- kind of had the impression you wanted me in your arse, mate.”

Oh, oh, _oh._ Tom really does want that. He gets up quickly, pulling off Chris’ cock with a cough, and scrambles onto his knees, arching his ass up to make it easy. He’s dripping sweat and drool and precome and if he doesn’t get fucked for all this he might actually have to cry, knows he’s got no time to open himself up properly, doesn’t give a damn if it hurts.

“I might not be able to stay quiet,” he whispers, and there down on all fours, arching for the promise of Chris’ cock inside him, it’s that that makes him feel ashamed.

Chris rises up to his knees and settles between Tom’s calves, gripping lightly at his hips. He spreads Tom’s arse apart and spits, hard, on his hole, making him jerk, and that’s that, Tom supposes, for lubrication.

“‘S gonna hurt,” Chris says plainly, “but try.” And God, thank God, he doesn’t stop.

He lines himself up and pushes in hard and Tom bites back an outright scream as he’s breached. It’s bigger like this than it seemed in his mouth, and it _hurts,_ Lord, like he knew it would, and the pain’s going to stick with him for days if not weeks and it feels like a blessing. Chris spits on his own cock and pushes deeper, slow, groaning, and Tom is whimpering and whining and carrying on like nothing he’s ever heard from his own mouth, hips working into a slow, hungry roll as Chris fills him.

“That’s good,” Chris breathes, “that’s good.” Tom’s beginning to wish they were bound by the same rules, because the sound of Chris’ voice, fucked-out like this, is _ruining_ him.

When Chris is finally inside all the way after what feels like years he moans a little, just softly, the way men like him are wont to do, and Tom shudders, all over, and lets out a chirrupy little whine in response. He stays there for a minute, and Tom is so full, and then he turns his head a little over his shoulder and breathes out, almost unconsciously, _“Please.”_

Chris makes a sound like a literal growl and obliges, starting to pick up a punishing, hard pace, and Tom does scream, then, in agony, in pleasure, in raw white-hot feeling. He doesn’t touch himself, though his cock aches and throbs and leaks, still -- he wants to come, if he can, just from this, from Chris’ fat hard cock splitting him open, taking him for his pleasure. Using him like he’d wanted.

Tom buries his face in the mattress and sobs outright, trying not to curse and beg, and Chris fucks and fucks and _fucks_ him, hungry, almost -- no, not claiming. Taking, surely, but Chris stakes no ownership in this, will return to his own bed when it’s over with no consequence. The thought almost makes Tom’s arousal flag, just for a moment, but then _Jesus,_ Chris brushes up against his prostate and Tom’s hands scrabble across the sheets, snatching up one of the pillows to cling and moan desperately into.

 _“There,”_ he begs, muffled, “like _that,”_ and Chris lets out a condescending little _shhh_ but obliges anyway, fucking bless him, there’s a friend, and Tom’s actually crying with the pleasure of it, with his own need. The tears dripping down his cheeks are somehow shocking and entirely unsurprising at once; stunning, that he’s been so reduced by the feeling of this, but then of course he knew if he ever did this there’d be tears. He’s wanted too fucking long.

The steady pound of Chris’ hips is starting to stutter, just a little, and as good as it feels Tom realizes he’s nearly out of time. He reaches between his legs to grip and stroke at his cock, craving, absolutely starving for the feeling of being able to come with Chris inside him, the relentless pressure against his prostate fraying his nerves until he nearly sees white. He’s so close, he’s so -- he’s aware of Chris drawing back, a little, and reaches around quick as a whip to seize at Chris’ hip and hold him, and Chris stills.

“Listen, I --”

 _“Don’t,”_ Tom sobs, and the sound of his own voice is appalling, wrecked and ragged and thick with tears. “Don’t you -- inside me, please, I can’t --”

There’s a pause, and Tom can’t look at him. “Okay,” Chris says, a little shocked, and starts fucking him again. The sound Tom produces is a low, growling groan he’s never heard from himself before, and he thinks he almost hears Chris sigh, between the ground-out little pants he’s producing with every thrust. And Tom’s still stroking himself, and Chris is in him so deep and then he gasps and grinds up _hard_ against Tom’s prostate, just the one spot, hips flush together, and _Jesus,_ he’s _coming,_ Tom’s coming --

Tom blinks back to consciousness a minute later, collapsed in his own sweat and come, with Chris looking down at him like he might be dead. He feels like he might be dead, actually, and this is paradise, fucked-out and blissfully tired, still awash in the pleasure of his orgasm. Before Chris can say anything Tom pushes himself up and clings onto him, tight, just for a minute, and before he can say anything about _that_ Tom’s already back on the mattress, curling up against the pillow he’d been holding.

“Thanks,” he says, quietly, and supposes that’s all he’ll get to say on the subject.

“Yeah,” Chris nods, looking rather shell-shocked. “Yeah. You too.” He gives Tom a little pat on the thigh and then stands up, stretches, and crawls back into his own bed, uncaring of the way he’s surely dirtying the fresh sheets. He turns onto his side, away from Tom, and settles in. Tom pulls the blankets up over himself and stares, wondering, up at the ceiling.

Well, then. There’s that.


End file.
